Chapter Six
A fter a short wait in Dr. Laing’s pleasant parlor, they were shown into his study, which apparently doubled as an occasional consulting room.
The doctor rose to meet them with his hand held out. “Mrs. Grey? Mr. Grey? I’m Dr. Laing. Do sit down. How can I help you today?”
He was a fair, pleasant-looking man in his early thirties, who exuded an air of confidence and trust. Constance, who had reason to distrust many of his profession, thought his manner no more than ordinary for the owner of a rural practice who no doubt had ambitions toward greater things. Until she looked in his eyes, which were bright blue and curiously intense, almost driven. An interesting man.
She left it to Solomon to answer.
“You may have heard that we are guests of Sir Humphrey and Lady Maule.”
“My housekeeper did say. I trust I don’t find you unwell?”
“We are both fortunate in that regard,” Solomon said smoothly. “Our interest is rather in the lady whose body was found in The Willows lake.”
The doctor’s expression changed immediately to one of acute sadness, even distress. “Forgive me,” he said, an edge to his voice, “if I fail to see your interest in the matter.”
“It is not a salacious or malicious interest,” Solomon assured him, “nor even a personal one, except in so far as we are trying to help our friends.”
“The Maules,” the doctor said, relaxing once more, although his expression was still bleak. “I suppose you have heard that Colonel Niall is convinced of Lady Maule’s guilt in the matter.”
“He told us so himself,” Constance said, “though he failed to provide any evidence.”
“I would be hugely surprised if there were any,” Laing said dryly. “I believe the police from London have found none either. However, I fail to see what I can tell you that might help either Sir Humphrey or his wife.”
“You carried out the autopsy,” Solomon pointed out.
Laing grimaced. “I did. And not very well. It was fortunate that my assistant, Dr. Murray, was observing, for it was he who spotted what I failed to notice.”
“The lack of water in her lungs?” Solomon gazed at him, unblinking. “Forgive me, but how could you fail to notice such a thing?”
The doctor colored. “Unforgivable, I know. I confess I was merely going through the motions. It was so clear that she had drowned—as I thought—and to be frank, I found it upsetting to be carrying out such a procedure on someone I regarded as a friend.”
“Ah,” Constance said sympathetically. “So you and poor Miss Niall knew each other?”
Laing smiled slightly. “Of course. Mine is the only practice for miles. Everyone in the neighborhood is my patient. But I also dined occasionally at Fairfield Grange. And at The Willows. We even danced once at Mrs. Darby’s ball. Do you know Mrs. Darby?”
“Sadly not,” Solomon said, while Constance filed the name away for future reference.
“She has the big house about ten miles south of here. She is some kind of relation of the Nialls and held a ball to welcome them back to England.”
“I see.”
The doctor glanced from Solomon to Constance and back, a small, cynical smile forming on his lips. “Do you? Please don’t imagine I was trying to court Miss Niall. For one thing, she was very much my social superior. For another—and much more importantly—she was my patient.”
And an ambitious man in a small community would not risk his reputation.
“Forgive the thought,” Constance said. “We understand she was eminently court-able.”
“A beautiful and fascinating lady,” Laing said ruefully. “Such a loss to her family.”
Solomon leaned forward on his chair. “Was she ill, doctor?”
Laing hesitated. “You’ll appreciate my difficulties in discussing even a late patient with strangers.”
“I beg your pardon. Allow me to rephrase the question. To your knowledge, was there any likelihood, or even possibility, of Miss Niall dying of natural causes? Of some illness or condition that was not apparent to those who knew her?”
Laing shook his head slowly. “None that I ever found. I treated her only for minor ailments—and one small injury to her wrist. There were no signs of other illness.”
“Have you any idea how she died?” Solomon asked.
Laing sighed. “None. There were no marks upon the body, no poisons in her stomach, no enlargement of the heart or other organs, no clots of blood on her brain or elsewhere.”
“Had she been in the lake for very long?” Solomon asked.
Laing grimaced. “A good few hours, I would say.”
“Can you be more precise? For instance, could she have died as early as nine or ten o’clock the previous evening?”
“She could,” Laing admitted with reluctance. “But if you mean could Lady Maule have somehow contrived it while they walked together, I really don’t see how. I presume that is what you wished to hear?”
“Yes,” Constance said, “but only if it is true. Doctor, you know everyone in the neighborhood. Did anyone dislike Miss Niall strongly enough to kill her? Did anyone have any reason, however unlikely, to do so?”
“I have asked myself that question many times. And I can truly think of no one. Even if I could, I cannot see how it was done.”
“What about Mrs. Phelps?” Constance asked suddenly. “She’s a little mad, is she not? And I had the impression she did not care for Miss Niall.”
“I know of no one Mrs. Phelps does like,” Laing said wryly. “And I would say she is eccentric rather than mad.”
“She is also astonishingly strong for a woman of her years,” Constance said, recalling the effortless swinging of the axe. “It would give her no trouble to load a body into a wheelbarrow, push it up to the lake, and tip it up.”
Laing blinked rapidly. “ Wheelbarrow ? You think she was moved to the lake by such means after her death?”
“It is a possibility,” Solomon said.
“It is,” Laing said slowly. “But from where? Even if it was Mrs. Phelps, I cannot see how or why she killed her in the first place.”
“Perhaps she didn’t,” Constance said. “Perhaps Miss Niall just suddenly died in Mrs. Phelps’s vicinity. I have known it to happen for no obvious cause. And then, afraid she would be blamed, Mrs. Phelps could have moved the body elsewhere.”
The doctor looked unconvinced.
“Fanciful,” Solomon pronounced, “but not impossible. Would you agree, doctor?”
“I suppose I would.” Laing sounded bemused, in fact. He seemed to give himself a little shake. “You know, everything I have told you, I already told to the inquest and to the police Sir Humphrey called in.”
“I know,” Solomon said. “But sometimes, just talking about a situation again, perhaps from a slightly different perspective, brings new memories or ideas to light.”
Laing regarded him dubiously. “You appear to speak with some conviction. Do you often find yourself in the midst of crime?”
“Not often,” Solomon replied. “But it has happened.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time and your patience, doctor. Good day.”
A few moments later, Constance found herself back on the road to The Willows.
“I had high hopes of learning something from him,” she said discontentedly. “And I don’t believe we did. Do you?”
Solomon shook his head.
Constance frowned. “Do you believe him? That his friendship with Frances was strictly proper for a doctor and his patient?”
“Yes.”
She pounced. “Why? By all accounts she was beautiful, charming, fascinating. He is a young man and unmarried. Why would he be immune to her?”
Solomon shrugged. “Possibly because he has trained himself to be.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully, “but why are you so sure?”
“Because he didn’t look at you either.”
Constance closed her mouth. Solomon was right. She was so used to men looking at her with some kind of desire, or warmth at the very least, that she barely noticed unless she sensed a threat. Sir Humphrey, John Niall, even Colonel Neill had all acknowledged her looks, however silently. Dr. Laing had barely noticed her.
“You are observant,” she allowed. “I’ll take it as flattery.”
“Take it as truth and see what you come up with.”
*
Dr. Darcy Laing drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking over his interview with the very odd Mr. and Mrs. Grey. The woman’s insensitivity to disgusting matters like murder, blood, and internal organs offended him. What was her husband thinking of to let her near such discussions?
And what on earth was their interest in the matter? What did they imagine they could learn that the police could not?
A brief knock on the door heralded the arrival of his apprentice, Harold Murray. Recently graduated from the medical school at Edinburgh University, he was gaining experience by assisting Laing.
“Who are they?” Murray asked, jerking his head toward the front of the house, where he had, probably, seen the Greys leaving.
“Guests of the Maules. They seem to have taken it upon themselves to prove Lady Maule’s innocence in the matter of Miss Niall’s death.”
“I wish them luck,” Murray said stoutly. “For I can’t believe so gentle a creature could possibly have done such a thing.”
Laing cast him a tired, twisted smile. “We don’t even know what the thing was. But you are right. Whatever it was, I am certain Lady Maule is the least likely culprit. It is possible, of course, that no one is to blame. Sudden death for no reason may be rare, but it does happen.”
“Oh, there’s always a reason,” Murray replied. He could be annoyingly pompous for an apprentice. “It’s just that we don’t always know enough to understand what it is.”
“We didn’t miss anything, did we?” Laing said. “At least, not after my initial failure.”
“That was understandable,” Murray said. “Such examinations seem an intolerable invasion when the subject is known to us.”
“I’m glad you were there,” Laing said.
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t been,” Murray said. “I’m not sure I made things any better.”
“Not so far,” Laing said heavily. “But if there is a killer, we have to find him. Or her.”
*
Before luncheon, Constance extracted Solomon’s promise not to approach Sir Humphrey concerning his “almost engagement” to Frances until she had the chance to speak first to Elizabeth.
This proved to be more difficult than she had imagined. After washing her hands in her room—Solomon was obligingly absent—she went down early for luncheon in the hope of a tête-à-tête. She found Elizabeth easily enough in the bright, comfortable morning room, but she was not alone.
Mrs. Haslett, the housekeeper, sat on the opposite side of the desk, her back to the door, so she did not see Constance enter. They appeared to be discussing menus for the coming week. Or at least Mrs. Haslett was discussing them, explaining in a highly patronizing manner why the vegetables or sauces of the main course did not work together, and how the courses themselves were ill balanced.
Elizabeth, trying to appear patient, looked merely harassed. Yet the look she cast Constance when she noticed her held more shame than irritation. Which was ridiculous. Mrs. Haslett was being needlessly obstructive, merely exercising her contempt for the second Lady Maule. And Elizabeth must have been putting up with this for well over an hour. She probably did so every week. And who knew how many other obstacles the woman put in her way, just because she thought she could?
God knew why Elizabeth was putting up with it. Constance had already had enough. Rather than leaving her friend in private purgatory, she bustled into the room, saying, “Goodness, Elizabeth, I thought you had decided on your menus already? Let me drag you away from this tedium. You know your meals are always delightful.”
Elizabeth rose quickly. “Yes, perhaps that is enough for today, Mrs. Haslett. Tell me about your morning, Constance.”
Mrs. Haslett, finally dismissed, took her time about departing, collecting all her pen-marked papers together. They reminded Constance of a piece of substandard schoolwork. She waited in silence while the woman walked in a leisurely fashion to the door, as if she still imagined herself victor of the field, and queen of the menus.
“My dear,” Constance drawled to Elizabeth, not troubling to lower her voice, “has she truly nothing better to do? I know you have.”
A sniff preceded the click of the closing door.
“I do,” Elizabeth said wearily. “The woman grows more difficult by the day. Nothing I do, or order to be done, is ever right.”
“Elizabeth, you were brought up to run a household! Her place is to carry out your wishes, not dispute the minutiae. You taught me that.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I know, but it isn’t that simple. I was the governess and I’m not good enough for Sir Humphrey.”
“Again, not her place.”
“No, but she has been with his family forever and Humphrey wouldn’t like me to dismiss her. I expect all the other servants would give notice too if I did. I thought if I just deferred to her a little, she would be flattered enough to come round to me in the end, but she never gives an inch, never stops…”
No, Elizabeth’s marriage was no bed of roses, even before Frances Niall’s death.
Constance sat down. “It was a good strategy,” she allowed, “and I suspect it would have worked with most people. Mrs. Haslett, however, seems to take every deferment as weakness, and is exercising her petty power to torture you.”
“Oh, Constance, it’s not as bad as that!”
“Isn’t it? If not, it will be in time. Don’t put yourself through the business of menus with her again. Send them directly to the cook. There is nothing wrong with any of your choices. You don’t have to justify your orders, but if you feel the need, tell her you are reorganizing your time. The woman is becoming a tyrant—don’t make yourself complicit in that.”
Elizabeth held her head in both hands. “I have missed your common sense, Constance,” she said shakily. “I do feel very alone sometimes. And you’re right—it is time I exerted my authority. Only if she goes to Humphrey about it…”
Constance reached across the table to remove Elizabeth’s hands from her face. “You’re afraid he won’t support you? If she goes to Humphrey she will merely irritate him, and he’ll leave it to you anyway. He will support you.” She had seen him at Fairfield Grange, facing Colonel Niall.
“Don’t let this woman chip at your confidence again,” Constance continued. “This house is a delightful home largely because of you. As for Mrs. Haslett,” she added with sudden insight, “I suspect some of her behavior stems from her desperation to stay. She sees you as a threat because you stepped out of your place.”
Elizabeth raised her head, looking thoughtful.
Constance had no intention of repeating what the housekeeper had said about preferring Frances as mistress. Still, the matter of Humphrey’s engagement had to be faced.
“Elizabeth, something else—”
A brief knock interrupted Constance, and Manson the butler announced the serving of luncheon.
Although Sir Humphrey was perfectly polite as they ate, Constance sensed a tension in him. She wondered if he was regretting allowing her and Solomon to stay and investigate the truth of Frances’s death. She wondered if Elizabeth was.
They did not discuss the murder, though, and Sir Humphrey excused himself on the grounds of estate matters almost as soon as the meal was finished.
“Would you like to see the garden?” Elizabeth asked.
She had always loved gardening. It was she who had first planted and cared for the kitchen garden in London, even making a pretty, colorful place to sit in the warmer weather.
“I would,” Constance said, rising at once. “You have much more land to play with here than in London.”
“Mr. Grey?” Elizabeth said politely as he stood also. “Do you care for gardens?”
“I do,” Solomon said, “but I beg you will excuse me until another time. I have letters to write that are growing urgent.” He bowed and withdrew.
“Is he bored, or does he really have such matters to attend to?” Elizabeth asked as they made their way to the side door into the garden. It was warm enough not to need coats, and not quite sunny enough to require hats, so they wandered outside as they were.
“Oh, he isn’t bored,” Constance said, “though I suppose he might be being tactful, so that we can enjoy a tête-à-tête.”
Elizabeth veered away from that, asking hastily, “What does he do, your Mr. Grey? Humph said he was in shipping.”
“Among other things, but yes. Only…he seems to be taking a step back, delegating the business to others and leaving himself free.”
“To do what?”
“Travel, I think,” Constance replied. “Though I’m not sure he knows. Still waters run deep in Solomon. And in you, it would appear.”
Elizabeth cast her a quick glance. “I don’t know what makes you say so. This is the rose garden.”
“So I see. It’s beautiful and smells heavenly.” Constance decided on the direct approach. “What makes me say so is the fact that you never told me your husband was once engaged to marry the dead woman. Or didn’t you know?”
Elizabeth sank onto the first bench and closed her eyes. “I should have told you. I just thought it might make things look bad for Humph. And me.”
“The lying makes things look bad for you and Humph,” Constance said severely. “So you did know.”
Elizabeth nodded. “He told me about her before he even asked me to marry him. But they were never engaged , Constance. He was seriously considering it, for the sake of the children, because they needed a mother, and the first governess he hired was quite unsuitable. You must understand he grieved terribly when Gillian—his first wife—died. He never expected to love anyone else, and he thought Frances, a well-thought-of lady of good birth and education, would do.”
“ Do ,” Constance repeated. “I have heard many descriptions of her now. I have heard her eulogized and admired by all as beautiful, good, fascinating, beloved, clever. Yet Sir Humphrey thought no more of her than that she would do ?”
Elizabeth gave an unhappy little smile. “Well, she was pleasant to look at, and I daresay she seemed a bit of a trophy, so he paid her a little attention. But the more he saw of her, the more he realized she had no interest in the children—and she doesn’t, whatever wiles she used to make them adore her.”
Constance frowned. “Did she do that? In what way?”
“I don’t really know. I wasn’t there before she went to India, but after she came home, they all goggle at her beauty, fall over themselves to make her smile, to do any little things she wants of them, and she does ask.” She drew in a breath. “ Did ask. ‘Bring me a flower. Go and fetch your papa. Go to the kitchen and beg a slice of cake.’ She especially liked if they were things I had forbidden them to do, like pull the head off a rose or eat more cake than was good for them…”
At last. “So she was not so perfect.” Jealous, surely, at the very least…
Elizabeth shook her head. “Humph had already drawn back from her when Colonel Niall swept them all off to India. Despite the gossip in the village, there was no understanding between them, let alone any formal betrothal. Humph was perfectly free to marry me.”
Constance sat down beside her. “Elizabeth. If you want my help, you cannot keep things like this from me. It’s as if you’re manipulating us to look in wrong directions, and if you do that, we may never be able to find out what happened to Frances. You may live under constant suspicion. Or that police inspector from London might decide it’s worth arresting you.”
Elizabeth’s pale face whitened further. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I have been so mixed up—at my wits’ end, to be honest—that I don’t know what to do or say for the best to anyone. Least of all to Humph. I am so afraid he takes all this as evidence of some evil within me…”
Constance grasped her hand. “There is no evil in you,” she said firmly. “None whatsoever. So tell me the truth. What did Frances really say to you when you walked around the lake?”
Elizabeth stared at her hands. Constance gazed at her face until her friend slowly raised her eyes to hers.
“What did Frances say to me? She told me she was carrying Humphrey’s child.”
*
Solomon had no urgent letters to write, but he thought he might use the time alone in his and Constance’s bedchamber to write to Jamaica, to make sure his agents there remembered to earn their fees, both on the plantation and in the ongoing, increasingly hopeless investigation into the disappearance of his brother David. Twenty years had passed since the last time he had seen David, ten since, in the wake of his own failure, he had given the investigation over to others—not just in Jamaica but in every port in which he had contacts.
However, it was not David that kept him from concentrating on plantation business. It was this case of Frances Niall, who had died from no apparent cause and for no obvious reason. He found himself gazing out the window, across the pretty countryside and not even seeing it.
An unexpected knock on the door drew him back to the present. “Yes?” he called.
To his surprise, Sir Humphrey entered, scowling direly.
Solomon rose to his feet. “Sir Humphrey.”
Maule halted in the middle of the room, glaring at Solomon. “Sorry to interrupt you.”
The unexpectedness made Solomon blink. “Not at all. Can I help?”
Maule sighed. “Need a word.”
“Then shall we sit and be comfortable?” Solomon indicated the two armchairs on either side of the fire, which was not yet lit.
Distractedly, Maule chose the nearest armchair. Solomon sat in the other and waited for him to speak.
“Dammit, I owe you an apology,” he said in a rush. “To be frank, I didn’t really believe in your skills of investigation. I only agreed to please Elizabeth, and because I thought she needed a friend to support her. Then, over at the Grange, it struck me I was sending you in blind, as it were, only giving you half the information and making everything you do for us doubly difficult. And in any case, I’m sure you’ll find out in far less discreet ways than a little honesty on my part would have achieved.” Maule paused for breath, eyeing Solomon with rather touching awkwardness. “Sorry.”
Solomon shook his head. “There is no need for apology. If you mean to tell me about your understanding with Miss Niall—”
“There was no understanding on my part,” Maule growled. “But it was a damned lucky escape. The more distance I put between us, the more she tried to cling. I kept running into her where she had no business to be—on my land, in the village inn, calling on me without her family. I tell you, I was mightily relieved when Niall hauled her off to India with him.”
“Was that why he took her to India?” Solomon asked. “Because she was importuning you?”
“I don’t imagine he knew she was. I certainly never told him. Awkward thing to say to a man about his daughter.”
“And when she came home again?”
“I hoped she’d be married,” Maule said. “She wasn’t, but she did seem to have grown up in India. She was the perfect hostess for her father, entertained us at Fairfield Grange and generally behaved just as she ought. And was charming with it.” He frowned again. “Elizabeth didn’t take to her, though she was always perfectly polite, even during their so-called argument— which was more an exchange of views, at least from Elizabeth’s understanding.”
“And from Miss Niall’s?”
“There was a flash of…venom in her eyes. Elizabeth says she muttered something under her breath, an insult ladies are not supposed to hear, let alone understand.” He shrugged. “Frances grew up among soldiers.”
“You must have been glad when she sent the note of apology.”
Maule hesitated. “I was. Briefly. There’s more, you see.”
His forearms rested across his knees as he leaned forward, twisting his hands together. Solomon waited.
“I spoke to her that Wednesday afternoon. After I read her letter, but before she called on Elizabeth.”
“She came to see you?” Solomon asked in surprise.
“More in her past manner,” Maule said. “I was riding over from the far end of the estate when she appeared on the bridle path. I could have sworn she was waiting there for me, as though someone had told her where I was. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing, but I spoke courteously, thanking her for her gracious note to Elizabeth. She said…”
He drew in a breath and his eyes grew fierce again. “This is the difficult part, because I don’t want this coming to my wife’s ears. Which means you can’t tell your wife either. But I think you need to know.”
“Go on,” Solomon said evenly. He had no intention of promising not to tell Constance, and fortunately, Maule did not push him.
He licked his lips as though they had gone suddenly dry. “Frances said… She said I had married the wife I deserved, a whore. That before Elizabeth came to The Willows as governess to my children, she had been a common prostitute selling her wares at Covent Garden. And that if I ever crossed her again, she would tell the world.”
Solomon perceived the pitfalls. “What made her say such a thing?” he asked carefully.
“God knows. An unsavory mind coupled with unladylike knowledge and, I can only suppose, a hate-filled jealousy of my wife.”
He doesn’t know . Solomon realized it from the outrage in the man’s eyes. Treading on tiptoe now, he said, “I see. So you did not tell your wife this for fear of hurting her feelings?”
“My wife has certain…tragedies in her past that I will not have raked up with this kind of malicious mudslinging. Of course I did not tell her.”
“But you let her walk alone with this woman the same evening?”
“What else could I do? I couldn’t tell Elizabeth why I suddenly distrusted Frances. But I…I watched them from the attic. There’s a storage area up there, closed off from the servants’ quarters, from where you can see over the trees to the lake.”
Solomon sat up straighter. “What did you see?”
“I saw them part. Frances took the path toward the road, while Elizabeth came straight back to the house. Which is why I always knew my wife had never pushed her in, whatever Frances said to her.”
“What do you think Frances did say to her? Was Lady Maule telling us the truth about that?”
“I don’t know,” Maule said miserably. “She told me the same thing, that they just made up their argument with mutual apologies and parted as friends.”
“But you think otherwise?”
“I’m afraid Frances made the same accusations to Elizabeth’s face that she had already made to me.”
Solomon shifted position. He knew very little about the trust and secrets involved in marriage. “Why would your wife not tell you the truth about what was said?”
“To keep me from worrying.”
“Or perhaps nothing untoward was said.”
Maule looked beyond him. “Perhaps.”
“You don’t believe that. Because you are aware of Frances Niall’s nature?”
An unhappy smile twisted Maule’s lips. “No. Because I am aware of my wife’s. She is too careful, too distant around me. There is a loss of…intimacy that speaks of shame and fear of what I might believe of her.”
“I see.”
Maule’s gaze came back to his. “Do you? Do you see that this gives both Elizabeth and me motives for murder? To silence Frances forever?”
“Did you?” Solomon asked.